


You Killed Him but He Didn't Die

by Rvotshka



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Death, Other, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 08:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10533057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rvotshka/pseuds/Rvotshka
Summary: AU where Lawrence comes back from the river faster than usual





	

           Lawrence doesn’t look peaceful when he’s sleeping, and it doesn’t surprise you. His body trembles softly like the room has no insulation, and if you touch his forehead you're sure it'd be slick with sweat. Like he's having a nightmare, but given how easily he attacked and kidnapped you outside the bar, you can't imagine what he'd be this afraid of.

           Your hands tighten around the handles of the garden shears and you bring them over your head. There’s a weak solace in your heart that tells you this is your only option.

           The entire room flashes with lightning from the storm outside, and he shifts just as the dull crack of thunder begins which pulls your nerves even more one edge, fearing he’ll wake up. Holding your breath, you lean closer.

           The skin of his stomach barely puts up resistance as you swing the shears down and lodge them deep inside his body, lacerating his organs and most likely severing his abdominal aorta. His body jerks and you hear a small cry that makes you think of some animal getting caught in the woods, useless and helpless with the shadow of a hunter preying over its bleeding body. The metal blades sink in grotesquely deeper after the initial stab (you morbidly think for a moment that they pierce mattress beneath him) and you watch mesmerized as his blood wells up, spilling over his sides away from the torn flesh like an unending stream of crimson, saturating the sheets and the hem of his pants.

           Lawrence clamps a hand around one of your wrists and the realization that he’s still alive hits you like a train, as if you almost thought this was going to kill him instantly.

           His eyes are wide, disbelieving, looking down at the weapon buried in his stomach, and he’s shaking. He's shaking hard. He opens his mouth and he stutters out a syllable of a word before choking on it. His eyes shift up to you (tears are already welling up and spilling over) and he tries to sit up, pulling on your wrist for leverage.

           You let go of the shears and step back, almost tripping over one of his books on the floor, and you didn’t even have to shake out of his grip. He let’s go of you easily and he slumps back onto his elbow with a groan. The blood hasn’t stopped seeping out of his body and you don’t know what to do. You look in his eyes as he cries and his face gets paler, and after a few seconds (seconds that feel like hours) he fully slumps back onto the mattress with a final, painful, exhale.

           His eyes are still open, glassy and void of life. He didn’t even get a single word out before dying.

           You look down at the floor and step away from the few drops of blood that have fallen. You need to leave but you don't feel the need to hurry anymore. It seems as if time has stood still, and there's an emptiness pooling in your heart that makes you feel weightless. You tell yourself that you had to kill him, that he would've heard you trying to escape and would've killed you. It doesn't make you feel better. Your legs are heavy as you turn from his body.

           You know there's no physical blood on your hands, yet you still walk into the bathroom to wash them as if you're on autopilot.

           When you finally step in front of the apartment door, you sigh at the amount of locks chaining it to the wall.

           There’s a couple padlocks, and you quickly find the keys in one of the hanging plants, shaking your head at his unimaginative hiding place. More lightning illuminates the apartment and you ignore it. Your hands aren’t shaking anymore (washing them helped clear your head), they easily get through the locks without a problem and you close your eyes briefly, sighing in content that you’re almost out of this nightmare.

           You hear the bed creak behind you and you freeze.

           The keys slip out of your hands and fall to the floor loudly as if you've been stunned, and with dread heavy in your heart, you turn around.

           He’s almost sitting up all the way, his hands are gripping the shears that you carelessly left in his stomach, and you see his arms flex in the dim light as he slowly starts pulling the blades out of his flesh. You see his hands still shaking, you hear the sharp slicing as the metal slips back out of his skin, and you taste salt on your tongue from the tears you didn't know you were shedding from pure fear and confusion alone.

           You're not frozen in shock anymore, you're absolutely horrified. You don't think about picking up the keys to finish escaping and you don't think to scream. It’s like you're on autopilot again as you step forward to catch a better look at him, as if the dark could be playing tricks on your mind. Or maybe there's still drugs in your system. But... you just saw the life leave his eyes as he bled out under your hand, he should be fucking _dead._  He should be dead. He should be…

           Lawrence finishes pulling the shears out, slick strings of blood drip from the blades and thinly connect to the entry wounds as if they have more viscosity than regular blood. His movements are sluggish as the shears slip out of his fingers and clatter to the floor, blood splattering along the ground.

           And then he turns to look at you. Blood has been leaking out of his mouth, dripping along his chest. Even in this lighting, you can clearly see the bright blue of his eyes as if they're illuminated themselves. He pushes the bloody sheets back and he shakily grips the bed frame as he starts to get up.

           “Y… you-” he stammers out.

           He wavers as he stands and he places a hand over his stomach as more blood begins to seep out from the vertical position.

           “I trusted you,” His soft voice sounds frail like you've broken his heart instead of forcing him to bleed out after puncturing his organs. “You said… you were going to be my f-friend,”

           You did say that when you first woke up here, bound to that chair. But you were desperate to say anything and you didn't think he listened.

           He leans down to pick up the garden shears from the floor and it's only now that you decide to move.

           You quickly pick up the keys and turn around, your hands moving fast to undo the sliding locks and shove the key into the padlocks in quick succession, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you hear him stumbling behind you. He looks weak, you don't know what's happening or why or how he's moving but he doesn't seem strong right now, he looks weak and if he gets close enough you can-

           You hear a disgusting shucking noise and your entire body jerks forward with a powerful push from the center of your back.

           You look down and see the tips of the shear blades sticking out before you and for a second, you can't understand why they're there. Blood starts dripping onto the floor and the pain finally registers, feeling like you've been ripped in half. You gasp and choke from the feeling, you feel as if you've gotten the breath knocked out of you but it's just your diaphragm collapsing from the trauma near the wall of your ribcage. You waver, and his hands catch you before you can fall.

           He gently lowers you to the floor so you don't fall on your back, and you try to say something but blood is filling your throat.

           He mumbles something you don’t quite catch and you're barely even breathing now, it's more like you're shuddering hard against every intake of breath you try to reel in but nothing's coming in.

           He kneels closer to your body and carefully places a hand on your shoulder and you remember how he caressed your hair once, how he held your wrists as he carefully duct-taped you to the chair, how he took the knife to the back of your neck and said he loved the curve of your spine. You're dying. You know this, and in your bleeding and deteriorating state you want him to gently touch you again, to hold your hand and listen to you apologize for killing him as you bleed out.

           He doesn’t do that, he’s through being gentle with you.

           His other hand grips one of the handles of the shears and he braces against your shoulder as he rips them out of your back effortlessly.

           You choke on your blood and on the air you gasp in, your vision swims with the flash of pain, and then you start to numb.

           He shoves you onto your back and your eyes start to unfocus. The pain blossoming across your cold body is dulling and for that you're grateful.

           “You brought this on yourself,” he says softly.

           You agree with him, you want to tell him that. You did bring this on yourself and you regret ever ripping yourself from that chair in the first place.

           When he stands up above you in the suffocating darkness of his apartment, his blood as well as yours splattered across his body and mixing together on his hands, you see the silhouette of a monster.

           Your eyes flutter shut and they never open again.


End file.
